


When He Calls Me Kitten

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternative Lifestyles, BDSM, Bondage, Bratting, Come Marking, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, F/M, Kinky, Magic, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Not Canon Compliant, Objectification, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Polyamory, Sex Toys, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: In this series, a dynamic is explored between Geralt, Jaskier and reader. As their devoted lifestyle submissive, you've given yourself over to their care and dominance. They share you, love you, and protect you. Under their hands, you push your limits and blossom on your knees.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: Inber's Geralt x Jaskier x Reader Fanfiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698223
Comments: 12
Kudos: 174





	When He Calls Me Kitten

“Ple- _eease._..” You whine, flexing your hands uselessly against the expertly knotted restraints circling your wrists.

“Please _what_ , kitten?” Jaskier trills above you, running his hands down the length of your naked arms, lazily cupping one of your breasts, flicking a dusky nipple hard enough to make you jolt at the sensation.

“Don’t call her that.” Geralt instructs, lifting his head from between your legs. Your arousal paints his face, glistens on his lips, and you think you may swoon from the urge to kiss him, taste the salt and sex on his stubbled chin. “She’s been a little **brat.** ”

“I h _aaa_ ven’t!” You protest in a drawn-out whine, at the same time as Geralt pinches your clit between two calloused fingers and makes you gasp, your spread legs jerking; they too are bound, your legs forced apart with your knees to either side of you, your feet meeting in the centre. Never far is Geralt’s knife, able to slice your bonds with ease, and both men know your safe words and actions. Not that you’d used them, ever; being the faithful ‘servant’ by day and the boys’ personal _slut_ by night was an absolute dream for you.

“Oh really?” Jaskier challenges, running his fingers down between the valley of your breasts, murmuring as if deeply in thought. “Because it sure _seemed_ as if you were not behaving properly at the inn.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt agrees in a grunt, teasing your dripping entrance with the tip of one thick finger, amused when you try to rock towards him, completely unable to.

“I wasn’t— _nnngh_. I was just trying— **fuck** , Geralt, _please_.”

Of _course_ you know what they are referring to.

That night, after sneaking one too many glasses of wine, you’d engaged in some banter with a young bartender; you’d felt bold and sexy, and you liked the way he hungrily stared at the swell of your cleavage as you leaned on the bar to flirt with him, laughing and tossing your hair. You’d intended to get free alcohol out of the deal, and you were successful; what you hadn’t counted on was turning with your goblet prize and running head-first into the wall of Geralt, whose expression was that of gathering storm-clouds, citrine eyes focused accusingly on you. Beside him, Jaskier had his arms crossed, and it _almost_ looked like he pitied you – if his jaw hadn’t been so firmly set.

Geralt hadn’t said a damn word, even as you squeaked and attempted an apology; instead he’d simply taken your wine, drained it in a gulp, and then hefted you over his massive shoulder, leaving the inn with a menacing glance at the bartender, who seemed to get the message – you were spoken for.

And that left you here, at your lodgings; once inside the door, all the Witcher had asked were some affirmations regarding your safety, and then you’d been stripped and trussed up, and here you lay, a playful bard at your head, and the White Wolf between your legs.

He’d been tongue-fucking you for over an hour, taking his time, feeling the tremors of your body, encouraging the crest, only to back away just before you could plunge into orgasm, pressing kisses on your desperate clit, trading amused glances with Jaskier as you arched and panted and begged.

“Ger _aaaalt._..” You breathe for the umpteenth time; he runs his tongue flat from your cunt to your clit, before blowing hot air on the hood, the curved tip of that talented muscle tracing a slow, oh-so-slow circle, right where you _almost_ need it.

“So mouthy.” He rumbles, gently teasing your entrance again with that finger, and a fresh wash of your juices coat him as you curse.

“Should find a better use for it than just whining and dirty words, really.” Jaskier mused, and you tilt your head to look up at him, all dark lashes and wet eyes; obediently, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out. Between your legs, Geralt laughs.

“Such a good little slut when it’s on _her_ terms, hm?” He notes, and Jaskier grins. You say nothing, keeping your lips parted in invitation, wet and ready. _I can be good_ , your eyes are telling him.

“True enough, Ger’.” The bard palms your tits, and it almost causes you to close your mouth, but you catch yourself. “Hard to resist, though. _And_ it will stop her from whining, least for a little bit.” You feel a pang of pride as Jaskier begins to unlace his breeches, freeing his twitching cock from the confines of them; they’ve been torturing you for long enough that the sexual tension in the air has almost manifested into its own entity. A thin string of saliva runs down the corner of your mouth as you wait, ‘til he repositions himself so you can worship the underside of his length, the slurping and suckling sounds you’re making entirely obscene.

Geralt watches with eyes darkening as Jaskier moans, encouraging you with short little thrusts of his hips; you catch the beads of his precome on your swirling tongue as if they are precious pearls, expertly laving the ridge of his head. Even upside-down and without the advantage of much suction, you know how to pleasure him.

You arch your back and angle your head up to take him into your eager mouth, suckling, Jaskier letting out a breathy moan, ‘til Geralt pinches your inner thigh and you release the bard with a wet _pop,_ fixing the Witcher with a questioning gaze. “No cheating.” He snarl-growls, a smirk that is all kinds of cunt-wetting fuckery tugging at his lips. You understand the message; no sucking, and only touch from the position they have you in. _Alright_ , you think, _I can withstand a challenge._

Cupping your tongue into a curve, you begin to rock your mouth on the underside of Jaskier’s cock, concentrating in particular just below the ridge of his inflamed head; you know he’s weak for you there, and you are rewarded with the bard’s low groaning as he begins to rock his hips in time with the stroke of your drooling tongue. You can’t see, but you can feel Geralt’s voyeuristic gaze upon you, the desire radiating from him as you pleasure his partner, and he finally slips his index finger into your oversensitive pussy, finger-fucking you with slow, imprecise strokes. The moan rolls out of your lungs and up the length of Jaskier’s cock, who echoes your pleasure; you feel the throb of him and are gifted with another sticky string of precome.

“Gods, but she’s _good._ ” Jaskier pants, fixing his gaze with that of Geralt’s wolf-like stare, and the predatory man answers with a grunt, before leaning over your body, pressing his invading digit in deeply as he kisses his lover, sharing the taste of you with him, the two men groaning into each other as you watch below them, objectified, still laving at Jaskier’s length, and _loving_ your position.

When they part, Geralt looks between your legs and chuckles in gruff delight. “Oh, she _liked_ that, Jaskier.” He informs the other man, who is currently gripping his breeches and clenching his teeth together as you work at _that spot,_ the friction of you becoming a delicious bite as your mouth starts to run dry. Geralt slips a second finger into you, and you can all hear the profane sound of your weeping wetness as it streams down the Witcher’s hand when he enters you. The sound of your slick is like an echo to you in the closeness, and you think you should feel shame, but all you can do is whimper-purr against the cock on your lips, delighted.

“Fuck, Ger’, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier has his lips open, his hips working in a mindless rut against your mouth; it’s too much for him, and he grunts, closing his eyes. “She’s gonna make me _fuckin’ come_.”

“ **Look at me,** Jaskier.” Geralt commands, a low order that further solidifies his ranking in your relationship; Geralt, then Jaskier, and then you.

The bard’s eyes fly open, and he locks his gaze with that of boiling gold, that electrifying contact coupled with the barest graze of your teeth against his cock-ridge enough to send him tumbling into orgasm, and he cries out brokenly, meeting Geralt’s gaze for as long as he possibly can as hot streams of his come splash your breasts, then as far down as your navel, dripping, the pulsing of his length wild against your plush lips as you do your best to prolong his pleasure until the last of his seed strokes your cheek, and he’s left shuddering bodily, collapsing backwards to sit, his dick still twitching in the aftershocks. You lick your lips and try to tilt your head back to look at him, all smiles, and dazedly, he gives you a lop-sided grin. “Mmm. _Nice_ , kitten.” He praises, and you flush with joy.

“Almost reached your cunt, brat.” Geralt notes, tracing the glistening lines of Jaskier’s spilt come that now paints your bondage-body in a rude canvas, and you glance down, shivering at the Witcher’s touch. “You must have had him quite wound up.” Inside you, his fingers curl, and your breath hitches as you bite your lip. “Maybe as wound up as you had that _bartender._ ”

Damn it, you’re absolutely _not_ off the hook.

“Geralt, I _swear_ I was just trying– _unnnggh_ , trying to get us more– _mmmh,_ more _drinks!_ ” You protest, again, and he makes a harsh sound of disapproval, withdrawing his touch. You mewl in sadness at the loss of contact, trying to rut your hips forward fruitlessly, and the sight makes him smile as he licks you from his hand slowly, knowing you’re transfixed and watching. Jaskier, somewhat recovered, slinks around the side of the bed to kneel by Geralt, and the two men regard you.

“If we needed more drink, **we** would have gotten it.” Jaskier informs you solemnly, rubbing your hip with his hands; you feel the callouses on his fingers where he strums his lute, and you shiver. “What you were doing was _flirting,_ and you **know** that Geralt and I do not share our things.”

He’s right, but you won’t admit it. You attempt your best doe-eyed innocent expression, but neither man is buying it – Geralt especially.

“What do we do with such a little bratty slut?” The Witcher muses out-loud, running his thumb across your clit, making your bound legs twitch and you sigh.

A sly smile spreads across Jaskier’s lips and he glances over at Geralt’s bag, before raising his shoulders in a shrug. “Give her what she wants.”

Geralt shoots him a quizzical stare, tracing the line of the bard’s gaze; a grin glints like a knife-edge across his lips, and that’s the very first time that evening that you start to realise that you’re in trouble.

“You have the best ideas, Jas’, I swear.” Geralt compliments his lover, pressing a kiss to the smug-looking man’s forehead, before he gets off the bed and strolls over to his bag, rustling about. You can’t see what he’s doing, and Jaskier is giving nothing away, humming beautifully as he traces patterns in his own come on your belly.

“Jaskier? Geralt? What do you mean… _what I want?_ ” Your eyes widen a little when Geralt returns, sitting himself back down between your legs. In his hands he holds something that looks a lot like a simple belt, but in the centre there is a glass bead, no more than an inch wide, onyx black, but otherwise entirely plain. You have more questions, but the Witcher lifts your hips with one large arm, circling the belt around you, buckling it, before sliding it down until the bead settles directly over your engorged clit. It’s cool, and you bite down on your lip again.

“You know your word and your gestures, brat?” Geralt asks of you, in a tone that is serious; this is safety, and play-time is temporarily suspended. You nod in affirmation, and he looks at Jaskier to his right. “And you know them?”

Jaskier smiles, and also nods. “Not that she’s ever used them, but yes, Ger’. If you can’t cut her loose, I can.”

The Witcher grunts, pleased by the brief communication, before he returns his focus back to you. “Little brats get _punished_ , don’t they?” His voice is light, a tease, and Jaskier laughs, clearly aware of what is going on. You just nod again.

“They–they do.” You agree.

“So I think you’ll find that it’s awfully _kind_ of Jaskier and I to give you exactly what you’re craving, little slut. I think you’ll be grateful.” The bard loops his arms around Geralt’s waist and reaches up to kiss his neck, but his eyes are upon you, mischievous.

You know from experience that it’s best not to say anything unless asked a direct question right now, so you just watch. Geralt reaches down, and with three flicks of his fingernails, he taps the bead.

It comes _alive_ somehow; it’s as if there is a light trapped within it that emits no heat, but is desperate to escape; whatever it is causes the glass to vibrate, buzzing steadily against your clit, and it’s so unexpected that you shriek and jerk your hips upwards as far as you can in your bondage, trying to get closer to it, or away from it – you don’t really know – and the sensation is like _nothing_ you’ve felt before. In mere seconds you are panting and writhing and then with a single tap, Geralt turns the bead back to onyx, back to a stationary object. Your clit is absolutely humming, and your eyes are wide.

“Mages are _so_ useful.” Jaskier sing-songs, giggling at your expression. “We had it made for you. We intended for it to be a birthday surprise, but, well…” He shrugs, stroking your slit with two fingers, making you bite off a hiss, “Plans change.”

“It feels– it felt–” You babble, wishing you could reach down to touch it. Geralt notices the wander of your eyes.

“It only responds to **my** hand, brat. Otherwise we know you’d be sneaking off with it at all times of the day.” He gives you a look as if to challenge this statement, and once again you do your best to plead naivety with your features, and fail.

“Again, Ger’. Do it again.” Jaskier nips his lover’s earlobe, running his hands down the length of the Witcher’s chest, those knitted abdominals that serve as a pillow for both of you on many nights, “I want to watch her _squirm_.”

“She’ll do more than that.” Geralt promises, that dangerous smirk returning to his lips, and _tap tap tap_ , the bead begins to hum again.

It’s like his mouth, or Jaskier’s mouth, but not the same; it’s like the friction of Roach’s saddle in a slow canter, but not the same; it’s nothing you’ve felt before, the buzzing on your clit almost soundless, constant, and heedless of their watching eyes you begin to jerk your hips upwards in a mating rhythm, mindless, unaware of the sounds you’re making, save for the fact that they are not within your control. Your cunt clenches, wanting, and Jaskier must pity you because he slips two slender fingers within you and presses hard against the rough bundle of nerves at the front of your walls, _come hither_ with rubbing fingertips, and then you have _no idea_ what is happening anymore because your orgasm smashes your senses apart. They watch you jerk and strain and keen in your bonds, the rope biting your wrists, but you can’t feel it; all you can feel is some kind of eternity where there is only pleasure, waves and waves of pleasure, your cunt seizing Jaskier’s hand without rhythm as the firestorm engulfs you entirely.

Geralt watches, fascinated, unlacing his breeches to free his straining cock; it’s slick with precome, begging for attention, and he wants nothing more then to slam it into you whilst you come – but he’s hyper-aware of your body, and that this is new to you. Too much too soon might be a bad thing. He watches, a low growl rumbling his massive frame as Jaskier removes his fingers and a wash of your juices floods the bed, your body still bucking as the bead relentlessly buzzes on your clit.

After what feels like forever, you blearily realise the Witcher has stopped the mage-made device, and you have no idea how many times you’ve come; you’re vaguely aware that there is rope-burn at your wrists and ankles, but that’s a mild discomfort as compared to the pounding blood in your pussy, your walls still fluttering. Eventually your muscles relax and the ropes slacken some as you come down, your breathing frantic, your wide eyes staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

“ _Well_ ,” Jaskier observes cockily, “That was money well spent.”  
  
“Hmmm.” Geralt agrees, eyes half-lidded as Jaskier wraps a hand around his impressive length and begins to stroke him, using the copious pre-come and a wash of your juices as lubricant to do so. “ **Again.** ”

Your head snaps up, a sharp intake of air your only protest as he taps the bead three times, and that vibration begins again. Now that you’ve come it feels different; pleasure is still there, but it’s blurring with some kind of pain, your body warning of over-stimulus; still you do as you are bid, and endure, hearing your dry-rasp cries now as you rock yourself on the bed. “Eight.” Geralt counts, his voice thick as Jaskier strokes him; you realise he’s predicting another orgasm before you’re even aware of it, and he’s right; your cunt clamps down on nothing and your abused clit throbs as you strain again, tears streaking your face, spittle leaking from the corners of your mouth. You’re strung-out, fucked-crazy, nothing but raw nerves and shivering flesh for them to manipulate; Geralt is still watching you, but he’s thrusting faster into Jaskier’s expert hand, and you can tell the display is turning him on. That thought _alone_ sends you spiralling into number nine, and your throat is too dry to even scream; instead you gasp brokenly as the electricity of pleasure consumes you bodily, thrilling your spine and frying your brain.

“Fuck, _fuck yes_ , Jaskier,” You are aware of Geralt’s grunting, and the bard is murmuring encouragements, his eyes also upon you; in the haze of your torturous pleasure you watch as Geralt flexes powerfully, his mouth parting in a shout as he comes on your body, marking you as Jaskier did before, a carnal art-piece; white-hot lines of his seed paint you, streaks of scalding liquid reaching as far as your chin, burning-hot on your tits, pooling in your navel. His orgasms are always potent and longer than Jaskier’s, and he spends the last of it on your thighs, leaving you thoroughly branded. He relaxes back into the bard’s arms to bask in the afterglow; meanwhile, you twist your wrists and snap your teeth together audibly and come _again_ , that damnably beautiful bead never relenting on your sore clit, your cunt muscles aching. You are hollowed out, a come-stained husk, a punished plaything, and for the first time in your relationship, you can’t stand it. You snap. You rasp out your safety word.

“Ro–” A gasp, “ _Roach!_ Fuck, _fuck, **Roach!**_ ”

Gods, you hope it’s communicable, because your throat is desert-dry and you have no idea what is real and what is some fucked-out illusion anymore, but in mere seconds you feel the ball still between your legs, and every single one of your bonds sliced. Instinctively, you curl into yourself, sobbing; you don’t know why _exactly,_ because you’re feeling every single emotion a person could feel at once, and so to pinpoint the cause would be impossible.

There’s cool water at your lips, and you feel the sensation of being lifted; Geralt has you cradled in his arms, as Jaskier feeds you small sips from a mug, waiting between sobs and sniffles to wet your mouth, and when you finally open your eyes, you’re met with concern from two pairs of eyes.

“Are you hurt anywhere, kitten?” Geralt asks, running his hawkish gaze over your body and noting the rope-burn – although you’ve dealt with that before – and you know he’s checking for worse. You manage to shake your head _no,_ but you can’t stop shivering. Once the mug is empty, Jaskier sits with you and strokes your hair, kissing your forehead, whispering how beautiful you looked, how utterly _gorgeous_ , how he’d never forget the sight of it as long as he lived. You focus on the lyrical quality of his voice as Geralt rocks you slowly, and gradually you find yourself grounded again, present in the room with two men who love you as dearly as you love them.

“ _There_ she is.” Jaskier whispers, smiling your favourite smile, and you return it shakily. “There’s our kitten.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt agrees, looking fondly down upon you. “So, we found out that ten is your magic number, did we?” His rock-slide voice is velvety, and you manage a small giggle. Words are still too difficult.

“Perhaps a record to beat another time.” Jaskier teases, smooching your nose, before he gets up. You hear him at the door, ordering water for a bath, as well as supplies for your burns and the ache of your muscles. His feet pad across the floor as he goes to the window, and you reach up with trembling fingers to stroke Geralt’s jawline.

“I _was_ bad.” You finally admit, and he chuckles.

“We know, kitten.” He gently kisses your cupid’s bow, and runs his fingers through your hair.

“I am for you, though. As long as you will have me, and even after that. I swear it.” Your words are meant for Jaskier too, and the bard briefly glances over to regard you lovingly.

“We know that too, kitten.” Geralt soothes, “We’re so glad to have found you. You’re a good girl, you know?”

The praise makes something in your stomach settle, and you feel like you’re glowing. You know you’re smiling like an fool.

“Um, you two?” Jaskier interrupts, and Geralt looks over, his expression a question. “We might, uh, have to think of a new safe word.”

Outside, Roach is pacing up and down below the window, whickering, the broken wood on her bridle indicative of her escape from the stables. The stable-boy is trying to calm her, but she’s snapping her teeth at him and beginning her pacing again.

Geralt starts to laugh, and you feet the joy in his body echo through your own, and even exhausted and sore as you are, you feel complete and safe. Pressing your ear against the even thud of the Witcher’s heartbeat, you give yourself over wholly, trusting his care, and that of his lover.

This is your place, and it is _perfect._


End file.
